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(Eleven) ◀◀◀◀◀ Chapter Twelve ▶▶▶▶▶ (Thirteen)
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Stefano (rather, the contents of his pockets) clinked softly as he bobbed and weaved to and fro, trying to steal a peek through the door's stained glass sidelights for some sign of movement from the other side. True, that Torrissio character was a bona fide blister but it was unlike him to keep people waiting.
Especially when said "people" had been deploying the full force of a single finger against his doorbell for several minutes now.
"I say. Is he asleep?" Stefano wondered.
"Perhaps," said Mortegro, folding his arms.
"Is he… Is he dead?"
Mortegro lifted his eyebrows at the potential of that one, but any such hopes would be foiled by the familiar sound of jiggling locks and the ponderous creaking of Torrissio's front door as an automaton pulled it ajar.
"Petra!" cried Mortegro.
"Petra!" cried Stefano.
"E-Elissa—?!" cried Sethys.
"Sethys—?" Petra registered the name, but ceased further communication. Rather the two stared at each other in stunned silence. It was neither a friendly silence nor a hostile silence, yet weighty, profound enough that it threatened to drag down the scene, the setting, the stage, the curtains, even the entire proscenium arch if someone did not soon intervene.
Stefano smacked his gob a few times, grasping for words. "Err! No! Why no, dear Petra! This is Seth! He's a Xenkan monk from an obscure cloister."
Mortegro uttered something low and unintelligible beneath his breath.
"He's also Mortegro's cousin who's never been off the mainland before so it's likely you've never seen nor heard of him!" Stefano capped off his spiel with a conspicuous wink.
His patter did naught to convince, but it did release Petra from her stupor. "Yes… Y-yes, well!" she huffed. "Very well and good, thank you! Though I can't imagine why the lot of you would dare show your faces around here, unless you needed to retrieve something from me before abandoning me forever. Hm? Is that it?"
"What ho!" Stefano gasped. "What's this all about, sunshine?"
"We did not abandon you. In fact, we've been trying to broker for your release all day," Mortegro told her.
"Morty's right, that damned Torrissio flimflammed us! Well, you tell her what happened, Morty!"
"From what I understand, you broke down in the Dark Path after Giselle and the others visited the Temple of Logic. You stopped functioning completely and they didn't know what to do or how to fix you—"
"And so, Giselle's first thought was to haul my helpless body straight back into the clutches of the man who wishes only to abuse it?" Petra could not frown or knit her brows; her only outward show of emotion could be observed in her diode eyes, which now blazed a steady xenon white. "And Mortegro! You ought to know better than anyone that Torrissio is a liar and a cad. Surely you must've anticipated he would take advantage of me and you."
A dressing-down from a brassed off automaton would become the cherry on top of today's towering banana split of a farce. Unfortunately, Mortegro never really cared for bananas and it had been several years since he last did the splits. He preferred his puddings to be simpler affairs, a bit of steamed something-or-other in a trifle dish, with a minimum of bother and fuss and surprise cousins.
"I did," he replied. "And Giselle had nothing to do with this. It was my suggestion to bring you here for repairs because—as much as it pains me to say this, Torrissio is the only person left who knows what a cerebral emulator servo is, much less how to rewind one. And I took it upon myself to handle the deal precisely because I know better than anyone how Torrissio operates."
"And boy can he operate," added Stefano. "Zounds! Even I could pick up a thing or two from him."
Petra lowered. "You wouldn't dare!"
"So if you wish to direct your ire at somebody, point it in my direction," Mortegro went on. "Not towards Giselle or Stefano or anyone else. Rest assured, I already regret the decision with every fiber of my mortal being. This entanglement has been an absolute nightmare from start to finish. Alright?"
"Alright." Petra's eyes flickered for a moment before resetting to the usual blue glow. "Well, you are here now, so I suppose I can forgive you for this," she said. "Eventually."
"For what it's worth, we really did hope to spare you the upset of waking up in this hole of hell by springing you before switching you back on," said Stefano. "I reckon the old blister must've sobered up at some point after lunch."
"What kind of deal did he sucker you into making this time?" she had to ask.
"Oh, it was positively risible at first. Said he would only let you go if Morty agreed to install himself into the dead man's boots once occupied by Filbercio, if you catch my meaning."
"What an odd request. I wonder why?"
"I wonder as well," said Mortegro. "If I had to guess, I'd say he believes his social status entitles him to the Magelord's position, thus he fears that the responsibility of accepting it will fall onto his shoulders."
"But doesn't he want to be the Magelord? I mean, who wouldn't?" Stefano mused. "Alright, so there's not many mages left to lord over, but at the very least it would look great on one's curriculum vitae."
"True, but he did tell me that he doesn't want the job," said Petra.
"And he said the same thing to us earlier, if you recall. I suppose he's simply gotten too comfortable in his isolation; I mean, he can hardly stand sharing his space with two children," said Mortegro. "And because the Council of Mages is now functionally defunct, he is free to pursue his obsessions without legal interference. Becoming the Magelord would potentially put an end to his fun, so better to force someone else into the job before it happens to him."
Petra considered this with a nod. "Better you than him though, eh?"
Mortegro shook his head. "Alas. That particular deal was a bluff, which he ended when I refused to humor it. It took a little more prodding but eventually he showed his true hand. What he really wants is for us to help him translate some bit of paraphernelia from his collection. The usual spells aren't working for whatever reason, so Sethys here is going to oblige."
Sethys usually knew when to keep his mouth shut and thus stood with lips firmly buttoned during the preceding, save for that stark moment of mutual recognition at the onset.
By Elissa's—err—Petra's own calculations (which were faultless by virtue of her transcendent Logic and her improved arithmetic chip) exactly 8759.37 years had passed since they last exchanged words. Ancient history now, but in those days she was still categorically a human and he was still categorically alive. Or did he yet live even now? Or was he a ghost or some other specimen of celestial envoy? Or something else entirely? Petra knew naught beyond what she could see for herself: 87.59 centuries of being held in a Time Prism had surprisingly little effect on one's general appearance, at least. More or less, the poor fellow looked exactly the same as he did when Petra—err—Elissa led him atop that blackrock dais in the Temple of Ethicality, to await his obliviation at her hands.
She tried to access the memory of what he'd said to her then—the aforementioned last exchanged words—but some obscure sector of her cerebral emulator triggered a kernel oops. Upsetting, but nothing fatal.
"You're saying he actually agreed to help me," she stated, glaring into the distance.
"Of course he did!" Stefano slung an amicable arm around Sethys's shoulders and gave him a little shake, grinning from ear to ear as if he himself was somehow responsible for the idea. "He's going to try, anyway! Or at least conjure some magnificent lie about it!"
"Hmm. I wouldn't count on that, the boy can't lie to save his life."
"Dear me, it would seem your reputation as a nitwit precedes you, Sethys."
He shrugged, uselessly. "Well, she would know."
So far the meeting between automaton and ancient seemed cordial enough, but some ineffable quality to their banter left Stefano with the impression of a collapsing stack of dinner plates, trapped in gravitational limbo behind a closed cupboard door for the past twelve hundred million decades or so.
(Editor's Note: Stefano does not have an improved arithmetic chip.)
Surely someone would have to open that cupboard eventually but damned if it would be him! Evidently his luck agreed with the sentiment—
"What is going on out here?!"
—for then and there came the most timely intervention of Torrissio, loudly demanding his own answers as he swooped into the threshold. The voluminous folds of his deep blue evening coat provided the necessary drama to the motion, even while his striped pyjamas flapped indecorously beneath them.
When he made it to the door, his face contorted into a rictus of surprise, dismay, and horror as three things occurred to him all at once: That 1.) those two infernal schoolboys were not the ones who'd been ringing his doorbell after all, that 2.) Mortegro awaited him instead with that self-assured smirk he wore whenever he was about to revel in some victory, and that 3.) he had once again invited Stefano to join in the torment, oh for the love of—
"Ah. There you are, Torrissio," Mortegro greeted the man's gawk, almost pleasantly. "Good evening. And might I say, thank you for revitalizing Miss Petra here and saving us the trouble."
"No, you may not say so," replied Torrissio. "I didn't do it for you. What do you want?"
"What else?" said Petra. "They came to rescue me from the likes of you!"
"Back inside with you! Go on!" He stopped short of shoving the automaton back into his foyer; thankfully she moved on her own accord before he had to resort to such brutish measures.
Mortegro narrowed his eyes at the fracas. "Is that really necessary? Or have you simply failed to realize why we've returned?"
"I can't imagine why you have returned! I cannot conceive what you else you could possibly want from me, Mortegro. Considering I ordered you not to return here until you've searched every single haystack—so to speak—left on these doomed Isles of ours until—"
"Until we found the highly improbable sewing implement that you seek, yes?" Stefano could not restrain his smirk. "Then it is with great pleasure that we introduce you to precisely that."
Both he and Mortegro stepped aside, prodding forward their startled Ophidian companion, who dearly wished more than ever that he still had a large scarf into which he could retreat.
"This is Seth," said Mortegro. "Your needle in the hay."
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